


To Name A Hurricane

by randombitsofstars



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Melancholy, Not A Fix-It, One Shot, POV Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-28 23:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13282230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randombitsofstars/pseuds/randombitsofstars
Summary: The drip of the kitchen sink reminded Arthur of things he couldn’t fix. It was an arrhythmia in his movements, in his sideways glance that revealed nothing but storefronts.He understood why they name hurricanes after people.





	To Name A Hurricane

The drip of the kitchen sink reminded Arthur of things he couldn’t fix. It was an arrhythmia in his movements down the city sidewalk, in his sideways glance that revealed nothing but storefronts. It was an emptiness, jarring memories superimposed on everyday life that reminded Arthur that everything was broken. Cracked. Leaking.

He understood why they name hurricanes after people.

_Drip, drip._

The third step up the stairway creaked. Squeaked, really, terribly loudly, all sharps in an uneven strain that unfailingly gathered Arthur’s attention. Once they discovered the quirk in the new house Eames made sure to include the offending step in his tumbling run down in the morning, a perpetual child on Christmas. He purposefully, _loudly_ , landed all of his weight on that fickle stair before descending the rest of the way to the landing.

It never failed to bring a twitch of a smile to Arthur’s face, a tic of muscles he tried (and mostly failed) to control by the time Eames graced the kitchen, bare feet thumping to bracket Arthur’s, boxers rubbing against his dress pants. Eames’ bare chest warmed his back as his arms snaked around Arthur's torso in greeting. “Good morning, darling. You’ve beaten me down here again.”

And Arthur would murmur back a greeting, barely awake and fiddling with their new french press, a preoccupation to allow his sleep-stuck brain to focus on his peripheral of Eames: his hummed rendition of “Tiny Dancer”, swaying boxer-clad hips, nimble fingers lighting the griddle to make their usual eggs - Arthur, over easy, and Eames, scrambled.

Domesticity was fun, but they had resigned themselves that it wasn’t what they would be. Arthur set the ground rules: a new house every six months, refreshed passports, a reasonable weapon stockpile. The irregular routine in itself became a habit, an annoyance.

_Drip, drip._

“I can’t believe you fucking walked out. A quarter of a million dollars, Eames, invested in that project. And you left?”

“Arthur, you saw that man. I don’t care how fancy his architecture skills are, I don’t care if he likes his coffee the same as you, I don’t care if he fucking checks out your arse when he thinks no one is looking - ”

“If you’re going to find these - these _imagined threats_ every time we have a job, we need to talk. The endgame was solid, the motivations better than most, you saw how much that school could benefit - ”

“You were running yourself to the ground, Arthur, and for what? For some supposedly non-profit organization - one whose business practices are no better than the corporation they’re targeting? Who hired us - _us_ \- to “liberate” their bloody money? Arthur, I don’t care if the queen herself gave that sales pitch, _you_ were distracted by the angle of it all, the game behind the prize - ”

“Oh, because the forgery matters nothing to you, Eames? The “game of it”? Let’s not forget Addis Ababa, I don’t remember nailing the ‘suave Italian entrepreneur’ at the top of our forgery list, you just craved the feeling, the seduction - ”

“You think I enjoy being felt up by those people, Arthur? Treated like a piece of meat?”

“No, I think you like ‘the game’ too much to stop the chase. You like possessing, but not the inverse.”

The thud of the door reverberated in Arthur’s ribs long after it slammed shut. His dinner made a reappearance soon after.

_Drip, drip._

There’s nothing quite like remembering good sex. It would creep up on Arthur sometimes, a flood of heat in a lukewarm pool. Phantom brushes on his shoulder overlaid with the morning newspaper. A blink on the interstate conjuring a thrust from above, corded arms and heavy breathing, undulating, a pressure in the abdomen that vanished with the next car horn. Fractions of conversations went missing, a micro-effort to catch up, thoughts hounded by whispered phrases from the night before.

And the moans. Porn didn’t do it justice. Arthur’s hand would be curled, pumping, slicked with warm oil from the bedside table, eyes fighting to stay open, and he just couldn’t breathe, a tightness of breath, a teetering on a precipice only alleviated by the memory of Eames’ moans, his begging, a stream of pure _want_ \- “ _God_ , Arthur, you’re so beautiful like that, riding my dick, _fuck_ , just a little bit more, grind that way, just like that, oh, just like that - ”

Arthur exhaled and explained in a measured tone the architectural problem to his new extractor.

_Drip, drip._

The crash of porcelain shattering against the wall seemed louder in this neighborhood, an ostentatious frivolity that passed under the lights of their city apartment, but here an action rebelled against by the very trees lining the streets outside.

It was too hot, a muggy summer, the air still enough that every time Arthur moved he felt like cleaving through butter, oily, impure.

Catching Eames’ sweat-slicked arm felt insubstantial, unprecedented. The glow of the streetlamp belied his heavy breathing, and the pulse Arthur felt under his grip pounded in a relentless torrent.

“Eames, I - ” The air itself seemed to suck away from Arthur as Eames glared back, unwilling to associate with such a stain, with something able to cause _that_ look in those fractured green eyes.

“You didn’t have to pretend to like Mombasa.”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

“You weren’t happy.”

“It wasn’t the city.”

“ _Then what was it_?” The words snapped like a whip.

“I run when I have to, Eames. I run - not to start over, but continue somewhere else with what I have. You can’t stand - you don’t want to leave dreamsharing behind. You couldn’t bear to live without the danger of it.”

“And you could?”

The buzzing of the cicadas lulled Arthur to sleep that night, his suit jacket and eyelashes wet as he laid on dew-covered grass.

_Drip, drip._

Arthur was floating. He was on his fourth drink, maybe fifth, but no liquor could hold a candle to the weight of Eames’ palm on his thigh. It was a claim in plain sight, a proclamation, declaration. A heavy reassurance that carried Arthur through the honey-gold of the conversations, drifting politics, words laced without malice or implication.

Tonight, he played the spouse enjoying the river cruise. He let himself absorb the brilliant stars, the breeze floating under the watchful gaze of the lights above, the varied coastline.

Arthur hadn’t realized his eyes had drifted shut until Eames made their excuses and helped him to his feet, ushering them away with pleasant farewells.

“I’m not tired.”

“Sure, darling. I was tiring of their conversation, as well. Let’s say we take it below decks, eh?”

“No, Eames.” Arthur’s feet planted themselves, albeit a bit wobbly, into the deck. He could feel his attention drifting once more, perhaps to the sight of Eames’ lips, or the cut of his suit, or the way his eyebrows creased when he found Arthur particularly endearing -

“No, Eames,” Arthur repeated. He knew this was important. His brain insisted. “I’m not tired, not of them. I just…” he trailed off, touching his tongue to wet his bottom lip, words jumbling like a lost spot on the page of a novel.

“What, Arthur? What is it?” He stepped closer to Eames, palms landing heavily on the front of his suit jacket. His fingers curled to catch the edges of his pressed white shirt.

“I am savoring. The moment. I want to remember - ” _Eames’ sweater on his skin, steaming soup on a sick day, large fingers curling in sweaty hair, head heavy in Eames’ lap, the intimate exchange of an inside joke, Eames’ raised eyebrow, challenging, a scrawled sticky note on the counter, ammunition for a birthday, and dog tags, homemade spaghetti and cold pizza in Boston -_ “Now. Together.” Arthur curled closer to Eames, stumbling, his last words muffled by Eames’ chest - “I want to marry you.”

“I can’t do that, Arthur.”

Not muffled enough.

_Drip, drip._

It was always cold when Arthur reentered his apartment. He had never truly allowed himself to utilize the power of the thermostat, a remnant of childhood lessons with a too-large family and a too-small budget.

Eames had taken over that responsibility. The relationship hadn’t always been perfectly split, but life had been divvied up where it counted. It had made them better. Both of them. _Arthur, we have to talk about this. This ‘bettering crusade’._

Arthur set his satchel down onto the kitchen counter. It was a breach of his past code, an irregularity that Eames surely would had teased him for had he been present.

Arthur’s stare stuck on the droplets splashing into the sink. It was something that should’ve been fixed a long time ago. _You can’t manipulate everything._

The french press was the same he had always owned, bought five years ago now. It still worked, coaxed to life under Arthur’s hands.

The balcony was functional, too, although Arthur supposed that was too generous of a word. Perhaps _extant._ It wasn’t even large enough to fit a chair, the wrought-iron railing rusting and flaking.

It would have been something, years ago, a challenge. _Always trying to fix things, Arthur. Cultivating perfection._

He wasn’t going to the hardware store anytime soon. _Sometimes you can’t make things the way you want them. Yet you can’t accept that._

Arthur stood on his balcony. There was no breeze, his apartment being bracketed on all sides by other buildings. Just the faint smell of garbage, the noise of the traffic, and -

A view of a yard, a real backyard. Someone else’s. Decorated with a lone grill, a pumpkin from last season, muddy confetti.

Signs of life.

Permanence.

Arthur hated it.

_Drip, drip._

In bed, Arthur rolled over to retrieve the newspaper trapped under his reading glasses. It was this morning’s issue. The fact that it was a printed copy made Arthur think he couldn’t lose all of his habits.

He shook it open, folding back the pages.

Page A3. International news, from London. A large counterfeit organization had been busted. A real rager, playtime for journalists, with Britain’s finest engaging in a sensational firefight. Several big names apprehended or wounded - scandalous, full-color mugshots and vivid write-ups included in the print.

One man didn’t get a mugshot. The description was positively lackluster compared to the other accounts.

 

 **Ringleader:** Forgery specialist **.**

 **Name:** Unknown.

 **Physical Description:** 5’8”- 5’10”, Caucasian, Build: Broad, Multiple tattoos, Dark hair.

**Picture: Unavailable.**

**Status:** Fatally shot during encounter with law enforcement. Presumed dead. Body: Not recovered.

 

A sketch artist’s attempt accompanied the report. It was not spectacular.

And yet. Arthur’s fingers knew the planes of that visage, touch imprinted on that skin. He had smoothed the wrinkles out of that forehead with a reassuring palm, and had pressed himself to those lips more times than he could bear to remember.

_Fine. I won’t participate in your games anymore, Eames. If you want to chase something, you’ll… you have to do it without me._

Arthur’s feet were sure as he padded out onto the balcony.

The newspaper floated down to the streets without a sound. It stuck to the ground, mud saturating the surface.

Arthur understood why they name hurricanes after people.

_Drip, drip._

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone. I hoped you enjoyed this fic, as it was not an easy one for me to write. As always, comments and kudos are dearly appreciated. 
> 
> I know this isn't the update to [I'd Rather Take a Bullet for You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5805604/chapters/13380601) like many are expecting, but this fic was something I needed to write. And I hope you don't think I'm lying when I say I /am/ working on it, just very slowly. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


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